


(just one more look at you) my heart has been hypnotised

by azure7539



Series: Omega!Bond [2]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, M/M, Omega Verse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-07-12
Packaged: 2019-06-09 10:34:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15265626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azure7539/pseuds/azure7539
Summary: The first time Bond meets the new Quartermaster in the National Gallery, three initial things occur to him:One: This boy, with those slightly too large glasses perched on the bridge of his nose and spots still on his face, looks far too young for the job; wet behind the ears compared to Boothroyd.Two: He is an Alpha, even if his outward, physical appearance doesn’t quite suggest so.And three: Despite lacking the typical physique that Alphas tend to have, his scent, on the other hand, makes up for it entirely. So well that even Bond—battered and verging on the edge of exhaustion with his self-inflicted wound (a result of trying to remove those goddamn bullet fragments) not yet quite healed—can feel his mouth water. Just a little.It doesn’t help that this new Q is not hard on the eyes either.





	(just one more look at you) my heart has been hypnotised

**Author's Note:**

  * For [opalescentgold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/opalescentgold/gifts).



> For [Opalescentgold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/opalescentgold/pseuds/opalescentgold), who has been nothing but wonderful and encouraging. I hope you'll enjoy this.

The first time Bond meets the new Quartermaster in the National Gallery, three initial things occur to him:

One: This _boy_ , with those slightly too large glasses perched on the bridge of his nose and spots still on his face, looks far too young for the job; wet behind the ears compared to Boothroyd.

Two: He is an Alpha, even if his outward, physical appearance doesn’t quite suggest so.

And three: Despite lacking the typical physique that Alphas tend to have, his scent, on the other hand, makes up for it entirely. So well that even Bond—battered and verging on the edge of exhaustion with his self-inflicted wound (a result of trying to remove those goddamn bullet fragments) not yet quite healed—can feel his mouth water. Just a little.

It doesn’t help that this new Q is not hard on the eyes either.

The second and third item on that list don’t necessarily hold much of any meaning in the long run, not unless this young pup of an Alpha intents on making things hard for Bond based on whatever misguided gender stereotypical notions he has harbored in that pretty little head of his. But even then, that still doesn’t quite strike Bond as much of a problem.

Even though society, as a whole, has moved on to a somewhat more improved plane of mostly equality amongst the secondary genders, there will always be bigoted, misogynistic people out there in the world. And considering that Bond encounters such human specimens on a regular basis thanks to his missions, he won’t be particularly surprised if this boy turns out to be one of them.

(Maybe a _tiny_ bit disappointed—he does have a delicious scent accompanying those red, red lips.)

There are ways for Bond to deal with scum like those in the walls of MI6: either he makes said scum sorely regrets it, or he reports it back to the correct channels and has things taken care of for him.

And neither option will reflect badly on his record. Simple as that.

But then all Q does is open his mouth and talk in poetry with a smoldering ember reverent in his eyes and a voice of warm cider on a cold night that wields and commands _attention_ effortlessly like the very air he breathes in and out of his lungs.

They were trading barbs back and forth like a game of tennis played with finesse, but Q doesn’t sound, or appear, derisive at any point in the rapid-fire exchange. And while Bond may look half-bored on the outside, his Omega knows better, and for good reasons, too. Because Q is handing him his plane ticket and equipment kit right in the middle of an open, public gallery, and this is probably the first time it actually actively crosses Bond’s mind with any stark semblance of recognition that Q probably has already had everything under control, down to the surveillance cameras, even before Bond set foot in here fifteen minutes early prior to their designated meeting time.

All the civilians in the room have been discreetly herded out as well, and Q, despite being an Alpha, isn’t boasting about it or even making any sort of offhand remark to point this out. There is only a general air of quirky confidence radiating from his person, and Bond is rather sure this fact has less to do with him than it is about how this boy has instantly been promoted to Q status just within the span of a couple of days.

And so, Bond must say: he’s somewhat impressed and _intrigued_ at the same time.

“Your scent blockers.” Q took the neatly packaged prescription out of the inner pocket of his crumpled parka—which was in no way, shape or form, flattering to his figure—and handed it over. “Only because you have completely sidestepped Medical so far—” as in _I am not your personal delivery boy_ , “—and the doctors are most displeased.”

Bond lifted the sealed bag from Q’s loose grip with practiced ease. On principle, he, much like any other agent, steers clear of doctors and their probing hands and questions, but on this particular occasion, he supposes he has to concede that they did have a fair point. There’s no urgency to hide his secondary gender for when he’s on British soil, but out on a mission where pungent machismo is the usual basis of operation, a neutral and nondescript outlook tends to be the better approach. “I’m sure they won’t miss me that much.”

Q is looking at him again, the aloofness of professionalism like a thinly veiled façade barely concealing that near intimacy present in _every_ way the boy conducts himself, and for a second, Bond braces himself mentally, because the pokes at his age and subsequent level of efficiency are nothing but amusing banter, but any jab over Bond’s capabilities based solely on his Omega marker will be something else altogether. It isn’t something that should be expected, not with all the social progress they have made in the last few decades, but like Bond has said before: life will always be ridden with exceptions, good or bad—and it’s only sensible to try and be prepared for any situation.

Therefore, he’s waiting. Waiting for the other shoe to drop.

But instead of doing anything, Q only smiles and gets up. “Good luck out there in the field,” he says, his glasses sliding down a little as he peers intently at Bond through the spectacles. Then, probably because he has gone through Bond’s files and seen his destructive track record, the boy adds, “And please return the equipment in one piece,” before turning away without a backward glance.

“Brave new world,” Bond muttered, the smirk on his lips not quite dying down just yet as he tucked his blockers away.

The scent of the Alpha still lingers in the air, warm and brushing along Bond’s neck like heated whispers skipping across his skin, and Bond stands, leaving the way he came from.

 

 

 

 

_Moneypenny was holding a straight razor to his throat, the sharp edge of it licking cold against his pulse, and Bond thought that the blazing red of her dress befitted the flames that still burnt in the pits of her eyes, the low yellow light of the room like broken shards of amber in her irises._

_It made him want, like a sudden shiver that snuck up the ladder of his spine, but at the same time, it made him tired as well. He had seen the same shark-like grin of hers in his own reflection back in the days far too many times, and that fact alone washed everything into a sudden, artificial glare._

_Bond knew that he was, more likely than not, projecting. Moneypenny’s desire was visible, but so was the hunger of youth simmering barely contained underneath her skin, and he understood this all too well—recklessness and the need to conquer. These were the two traits that all field operatives had, and_ should _have; they were what drove agents forward, made them keep pushing at boundaries._

_However, getting shot off a train (not that he blamed her over something that was already botched from the beginning) and falling straight into the belly of the river below had dampened some of this for him. Before, he would’ve perfectly been fine with shagging Moneypenny for stress relief (like with Ronson, and Ronson was_ dead _), but that just wasn’t the case anymore._

_Something, deep in the recesses of his mind, told him that it probably wouldn’t feel much different from all those times he had spent having sex in that hut by the beach, trying too much to drown everything out—the pain, the betrayal, the weight of death finally closing in and threatening to crack his chest wide open. It had never worked, of course, not even with all the booze, all the blackmarket pain medications, and doing cheap thrills in the local bars at night for even more free drinks._

_And he would rather leave all that behind him now and not have the reminder._

 

 

 

 

It’s past midnight by the time Bond drags himself back to Headquarters, looking the worse for wear but still too pigheaded to ever allow anyone to see him even remotely limping.

The usual graveyard-shift security guard is there, and the man only nods once when he sees Bond before going back to monitoring CCTV cameras and whatever else he’s been doing to occupy himself, this being too common an occurrence in a place such as MI6. And it’s that easy and unspoken understanding that makes Bond appreciate the man’s discretion all the more.

Bond is here to hand in the flash drive he managed to snag from his latest target’s mainframe before the whole thing combusted in a burst of flame that had been gradually consuming the entire building leading up to it. He figures that it may work to his favor just a tiny bit better if he were to give Q a puzzle to work on first before subjecting himself to the tirade that will surely rain down on him for failing once again to bring back not even a mangled piece of any of his assigned equipment.

(Not that there was anything else he could’ve done to salvage Q’s precious inventions anyway, circumstantial losses they were.)

Q-Branch’s perpetual cold air rushes in and settles around his personal space like a presence of its own the second the lift opens, but Bond remains steady and keeps his strides even as he heads for the door to Q’s lab.

As expected, the entire place is mostly deserted save for one lone figure hunched over a work table, squinting at some sort of small circuit board under the harsh fluorescent light of the desk lamp that seems to be tilting at a rather awkward angle.

“007,” Q says, syllables and consonants stretched out almost like he’s been waiting for this encounter to happen for quite some time already. Like Bond didn’t just decide out of the blue on the ride back from the airport to change course and go here instead of aiming straight back home to lick his wounds in solitude.

“Q,” Bond replies and bridges the gap between them, hovering just _outside_ of what is people’s usual boundary, but as he has noticed before, Q never appears to mind. “Working late again, are we?”

Q stops and peers up at him at this, his eyebrows arching, and the slant of light from that weirdly angled lamp accentuated the contours on the right side of his face, casting steep shadows over those dark circles under his eyes. “How do you think I keep up with fixing all the things you agents either wreck or not bring back at all?”

The question is meant to tease, but the gentle, almost quiet, delivery really seeps into Bond’s mind and stays there, nestled and not dissipating. It isn’t that Bond deliberately loses Q’s equipment, but just this is nearly enough to make him feel a twinge of something that he distantly recognizes as resembling some form of actual guilt.

“By delegating to your minions?” Bond offers.

Q snorts. Not that he’s offended Bond just calls his techies minions, no. “They all have enough on their plates everyday already thanks to you lot.”

“And you don’t?”

Putting down what he’s been doing, Q levels a slightly more serious look at Bond then leans back into his chair. And it’s quite unfair, really, Bond thinks, because even like this, sleep-deprived with his clothes rumpled from however long he’s been refusing to go home, the flares of intensity in Q’s eyes are still razor sharp as they scorch hot blazes along Bond’s skin, the pheromones rolling off of him crashing all around like waves coming ashore.

“I can afford to pull long hours, Bond,” Q says, as though this supposes to explain to Bond the reason why Q is sidelining his own life and health to make these gadgets for ultimately expendable agents to use; why he will stop at nothing, even if it means headbutting with Mallory over safety and exposure and regulations, to protect them as much as he can. To make sure they all make it back home, dead or alive. “And _you_ , Bond. You either head over to Medical now, or go back to your flat and get some rest.”

Well, that’s a clean dismissal if Bond has ever heard one.

Bond smirks, fishing the flash drive from out of his pocket and sliding it across the table top over to Q. “What? No spectacular dressing down this time?”

“Not at the moment, no. I don’t kick someone when they’re vulnerable, Bond.” The mischievous tone returns to the Alpha’s voice. “But if you must know, I’m just saving it up for when we have proper audience.”

“That’s a rather bastardized version of the knights’ moral codes, Q. I’m surprised.” Bond smiles, and the molten, liquid amber that scattered in Q’s eyes like flecks of stars pulls at him like inevitable gravity, running hot in Bond’s veins. “How about a cup of tea before I leave, then?”

“Well,” Q is smiling, too, lacing his fingers together and tilting his head a fraction to the side, “I wouldn’t say no to that.”

 

(Bond makes Q a cup of tea—three generous spoonfuls of sugar and a dash of milk—but his mind flips a switch at the last minute, and he’s already saying goodbye to Q before he even registers it and abandons the empty mug he previously took out to brew a cuppa for himself, retreating back the way he came from.)

 

 

 

 

_Silva’s energy was as unstable as the climbs and falls of his name, and Bond felt this the very first second the man stepped through from the lift, the room surrounding them like a crumbling cathedral with high ceiling and unforgiving light piercing through grimy windows. He soon learnt that Silva was chaotic but exact in his methods of control and the way he executed his actions. It was all very superfluous and dramatic, every grandiose gesture, but nothing that hadn’t already been planned and weighed to the last grain._

_Bond’s muscles tightened as far as they could go when Silva crowded in and tried to use his dominance to invade and take control with all the subtle, assessing grace and patience like the big scorpion that he was. He smiled a little, board hands prying open Bond's shirt and sliding along his thighs, and in that moment, Bond realized just exactly how dangerous this man was because the touch of his palms was warm, snug and closing in, but the pressure of it never went near stifling—it was the sort of hold that if went around the throat would seem almost like an intimate, excitement inducing caress… up until it plunged in, crushed the windpipe, and choked one to death right on the spot. And Bond did everything he could to suppress a shiver, to keep the Omega in the back of his mind under secure lock and key._

_Silva knew exactly what he was doing, and he was doing it very well, and Bond should’ve known._

_He should’ve known sooner that they had been playing right into the madman’s hand._

_But he hadn’t… and somebody else paid a dear price for it._

 

 

 

 

The bullet whizzes past Bond’s head close enough he can still feel the ghost of its lethal passage long after it buried itself into the wall behind him.

_“Status update.”_ Q’s voice rings in his ear, steady and unwavering, a precarious balance between smooth-glass professionalism and a timbre like that of a low murmur that seems only meant for Bond and Bond alone to hear.

“Running out of ammo,” Bond grunts in reply, annoyed, because this is Rome, and he has always had funny feelings about anything Italy-related in general. Call it a wild hunch, but it’s never been wrong, not when there’s only one column standing between him and a hail of bullets aimed to shatter his skull.

_“Don’t you dare throw your gun at them, Bond,”_ Q said, the warning half-bored in throat, and Bond can almost imagine him now, standing a little hunched over his workstation and typing away with his quick, clever fingers to unstick Bond relatively unscathed from this shit show as fast as he can.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

_“Good.”_ Q doesn’t sound at all quite that impressed, to be honest. He should be though, Bond thinks, because Bond is definitely making an effort here. _“Now, wait for your cue then head down to the corridor on your left.”_

The enemies are closing in fast, and Bond hopes Q has some sort of good tactics up his sleeves because Bond would hate to go back on his words about not throwing Q’s gun away so soon.

It’s in this instant that the power goes out, throwing the entire facility into total darkness, and the fire alarms overhead starts screeching all high hell, hauling the installed sprinklers into action just as Bond uses the cover of chaos, which has temporarily stopped the onslaught of gunfire, to make his escape.

_“Ah, so you_ can _follow instructions then,”_ Q hums wryly, a little voice in his earpiece that is, at once, too far and almost tangible in his grasp.

“Got to get this piece of tech back to you somehow,” Bond replies, breathing labored as he propels himself forward as fast as he can. There are already footsteps dashing after him.

There’s a brief pause on the other end, then: _“Are you really trying to be responsible for once in your life, Bond? I’m touched.”_

“Well, no reason not to change it up to keep you on your toes.” Bond ducks to the side just in time as another torrent of bullets discharges his way. “Just a second,” he grunts, seeing the fire extinguisher like a red herring in the dark and instantly springing up to get it.

This is going to take a while.

 

 

 

 

“You broke your own record,” Q says, the amused tilt of his lips paired up a duo with the cat-got-the-cream smirk on Bond’s face, slightly battered but largely intact.

“So I did.” And no, Bond isn’t tooting his own horn at all.

“You still threw my gun away at one point though.” Q raises his eyebrows, because he _did_ hear that oh-so-familiar clatter over the comm despite all the fighting that had gone on at the time.

Bond shrugs. “Just be happy that you got your Walther back.”

“Is that a threat I hear?” Q crosses his arms in front of his chest, and honestly, he’s looking more pleased with this than Bond expected he would, and this alone somehow brings forth a sliver of warmth that spreads from the nape of Bond’s neck like milk splashing into bitter dark tea, swirling a soft cloud and unfurling at rapid speed.

“We’ll have to see, won’t we?” Bond replies.

And Q is chuckling, mirth and cheekiness glinting a beautiful shine in his eyes, the sound of his voice bouncing against some deep corners inside of him that Bond eventually finds himself smiling back in response.

**Author's Note:**

> Title, once again, is inspired by [**_Hypnotised_**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R-Iyt0DIyvg) by Years & Years


End file.
